Wenonahs Stories For Children by Clara Louise Burnham

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Clara Louise Burnham and Warren Proctor

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Title: Wenonah's Stories for Children

Author: Clara Louise Burnham
Warren Proctor

Release Date: April 4, 2016 [EBook #51653]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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WENONAH'S STORIES

FOR CHILDREN

By

CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM

and

WARREN PROCTOR

THE

HARMONY SHOP

PUBLISHERS OF GOOD BOOKS

BOSTON — MASS.

Copyright, 1918,

by A. M. Davis

To

EDITH BULLEN

CONTENTS

CHAPTER
PAGE

I. Lois and Harold
1

II. Wenonah
5

III. Dusty Feet
16

IV. Basket Making
23

V. The Wand
28

VI. The Golden Key
48

VII. The Polawee
85

VIII. Farewell
111

WENONAH'S STORIES

FOR CHILDREN

CHAPTER I.

LOIS AND HAROLD.

When Lois and Harold Robbins first learned that they were not going to the seashore this summer they felt very much
disappointed.

Lois was ten years old and Hal was eight. They thought there was no fun so nice as wading in the salt water and letting
the foam break over their legs. Of course it was better still to have Daddy put the water-wings on them and let them
float, and give them swimming lessons. They had not quite learned to swim alone yet without the water-wings, and this
was to be the summer when they would surely do it.

When their father saw their disappointment he tried to cheer them up.

"Don't you know that Lake Michigan looks as big as the ocean?" he asked.

"It isn't salt," said Lois.

"Has it any starfish and crabs in it?" asked Hal.

"No," returned Mr. Robbins, "but children can swim in it and wade on the sandy shore, and then there are sweet-
smelling pine woods to play in, and your mother wants to smell those pines. Don't you think you would like to see a little
more of the world, instead of going to the same place every summer?"

Lois shook her head very decidedly. "No," she replied, "for I know we shall never have such a good time as we do at
the seashore."

Her father smiled. "It is never a wise plan to make up your mind not to have a good time," he said. "That is like turning a
bowl upside down. Nothing can run into it, so it stays empty. Keep your bowls right side up, both of you, and you can't
tell what jolly things may run into them. Hal, you remember those pictures of Indians we were looking at last night?"

Hal at once became interested. He always wanted to hear all he could about Indians.

"Well, don't you think it will be pleasant to see that country where the Indians roamed, and led their wild, free life long
after they were gone from New England?"

"What do you mean by holding our bowls right side up?" asked the little boy.

"If you are hopeful and cheerful and loving every morning and all day," replied his father, "you are holding your bowl
right side up."

[Pg 1]

[Pg 2]

[Pg 3]

"Do you think if I do that in Michigan an Indian might fall into it?"

His father laughed. "I think the Indians have cleared out from there; but you will see the trails they used through the
woods, the places where their tents stood, the water where their canoes moved so silently, the shores where their
moccasins trod so swiftly, and breathe the clear, fine air through which their wild whoops rang as they danced around
the camp fire, while the smoke curled up above the tall trees."

"I say we go, Lois," said Hal, his eyes shining.

"If the Indians were there now," said his sister, "I think you would run in the other direction."

"No, I wouldn't," returned Hal confidently. "I'd put on one of those great big war bonnets and tell them I wanted to be a
brave and live with them, and I think they'd let me; but I don't think they'd take you, Lois, for they like braves a great
deal better than they do squaws."

"I wouldn't be a squaw," returned Lois. "I would be an Indian princess and wear a wonderful red mantle with purple
stripes and have chains about my neck, and my hair braided and shining, and beautiful bracelets, and they would all
bow down to me—and you'd have to, too."

"No, the chief would take me for his son and I should have a wonderful bow, the longest in the tribe, and shoot my
arrows so straight that the other Indians would all say 'Ugh! ugh!' That's what they say when they like anything, isn't it,
Daddy?"

"I think it is," returned Mr. Robbins, and Harold ran to get the Indian book to show his sister how he would look
shooting arrows before an admiring tribe, because he had found that picture last night, and it had pleased him very much
indeed. He found the picture of a princess for Lois and she liked the looks of the straight-nosed beauty, because her
own nose turned up a little, and she thought it would be fine to have such a handsome nose and hold her head so
proudly. It was almost impossible to hold one's head proudly if one had a turn-up nose.

Her father patted her shoulder as he passed her to leave the room.

"That's right," he said. "Have a good time being a princess this summer, instead of a mermaid. I'll get you a tent if you
want it."

CHAPTER II.

WENONAH.

When they took the train to go West to Michigan, Lois and Hal were very much interested in the sleeping car. They had
never seen one before, and when their father tucked them into two opposite upper berths that night, they hardly wanted
to go to sleep, it was such fun to peek out at each other between the heavy curtains.

The children's heads were still full of the subject of the Indians. They felt they were on their way to the home of the red
man, and Lois said to her father:

"What would the Indians have thought of these little upstairs beds?"

Hal was leaning out into the aisle from his couch. "They'd have said 'Wow! wow!'" he cried.

"Softly," suggested his father. "Not only the Indians would have been surprised. Think of the first white people going
slowly and patiently across the country in their covered wagons, taking weeks to travel over the distance we cover in a
day. Isn't it wonderful to live now instead of then?"

"But that was the most fun," said Hal. "I've seen pictures of the Indians galloping across the plain to attack the wagons,
but the men had their guns and they saved themselves and drove the Indians off."

Mrs. Robbins had the berth underneath Harold and she looked out between her curtains.

"You know the sooner you go to sleep, children, the sooner you will see Lake Michigan," she said.

They had always found that their mother knew what she was talking about, and they were eager to see the Indians'
lake, so they turned over in their little up-stairs beds and in a surprisingly short few minutes it was morning.

The next night they spent in another sort of little beds, only this time they were on a large steamer on a lake that
stretched away as far as they could see, just like the ocean. The children could scarcely believe that those great waves
were not salt.

"What would an Indian in his little canoe have thought to see a big mountain of a ship like this coming along toward
him?" asked Hal.

His father shook his head. "The canoes kept near the shore, I suspect. You will see the sort of shore tomorrow."

[Pg 4]

[Pg 5]

[Pg 6]

When they arrived at their destination the children were pleased to find a sandy beach, and the foaming surf which
looked good to wade in.

They found a little log cabin waiting for them and it was nestled in pine woods on the side of a hill. Their father was busy
at the wharf some time about the luggage, and when he arrived at the house he looked at the children with a laugh in his
eyes but his lips very sober.

"What do you think I have just found out?" he asked when the men had brought the trunks and gone away.

The children listened eagerly. They liked this forest hill full of Christmas trees, with enough spaces in front of the cabin to
look through to the blue lake, and they could hardly wait to hear what their father had to tell them.

"What is it? What is it?" they asked together.

"Have you been holding your bowls right side up all the morning? Have they, Mother?" he asked, turning to his wife,
who was examining the way the little windows opened like doors.

"Yes, they have been very good children," she returned, with her attention on the hinges and fastenings.

"Very well, then. I must tell you that there is an Indian camp here."

The eyes of both Lois and Harold became very large. Their father looked serious.

"Are we going to stay?" asked Hal in a hushed voice.

"Is it safe?" asked Lois in the same breath.

"I think we can risk it," said Mr. Robbins.

Hal shook his head. "We'd better each have a gun then," he said, "because we must sleep some of the time."

His father laughed and gave both the children a hug. "You keep your bowls right side up and you won't need any guns,"
he said. "The Indians are like other people in that. They will give you the same sort of treatment you give them."

"See here, dear, will you?" said Mrs. Robbins to her husband. "What is the matter with this catch?"

"They had better make the windows safe," said Hal to Lois in a low tone. His eyes were still very large. "Come out and
see if we can see any smoke."

The children went outside and peered about among the trees.

"I think Daddy seems very queer and careless about this, don't you?" asked Lois. "They must be tame Indians."

"They may pretend to be," said Hal, "but I don't see how he can trust them in the night time."

"See here, children," called their mother from the door, "don't stray away until I get your play clothes out of the trunk."

Lois and Hal went inside and quite silently changed their traveling clothes for tougher garments, then they again went out
doors.

Their parents had bought the children wrist watches in leather straps before coming here, because they knew it was a
wild country and it was so hard for them to remember the time of day. The father and mother were very busy now
unpacking and settling the little home, so they merely reminded Lois and Hal to remember to be at home by six o'clock.

"Did you notice how near the hotel is?" asked Mr. Robbins, "Come out here." He showed them what they had not
observed: a glimpse between the thick trees of a large spreading building, built of logs just like their own little house.

"So if you get lost just ask somebody to direct you to the hotel. Understand?"

The children nodded and he went back to his work of hanging a hammock among the trees. Mrs. Robbins had come
West in need of rest, and her husband intended her to live in this hammock, as much as possible.

"I think Daddy acts very queer," said Lois as the two moved slowly away on the narrow forest path.

"This looks to me like an Indian trail," said Hal quite gloomily.

"That is what it is, of course," replied Lois. "The idea of Daddy saying so coolly if we get lost to ask for the hotel—and
these woods full of Indians!"

"And we begged to go to the seashore, too," responded Hal.

They held each other by the hand and moved slowly. The piney air about them was delicious, and every few steps they
would get another glimpse of the light blue of the dancing waves.

"I thought you wanted to see the Indians so much, Hal, and be a 'brave,'" said Lois at last.

He hesitated a little, but he knew that being a boy he ought to protect his sister, and he felt that she was being

[Pg 7]

[Pg 8]

[Pg 9]

[Pg 10]

disappointed in him.

"Of course," he began, "if I had a war-bonnet and a bow and arrows—but all I have to slap 'em with is a wrist watch."

Lois started to laugh at this, but her laugh was quickly hushed and she and Hal stopped suddenly and clung more tightly
together, for among the trees a dash of scarlet was visible. It was moving swiftly and came toward them.

They suddenly saw an Indian maiden on whom they gazed with all their eyes. She wore the vivid scarlet mantle with
purple stripes that Lois had longed for, and a petticoat embroidered with bright beads. Her long, shining braids hung
over her shoulders. Her arms bore heavy bracelets and her silent feet were shod with moccasins. She wore a brilliant
hued bodice and a narrow gold band passed across her forehead.

To the children she looked all that was stately and beautiful and commanding as she moved, straight as an arrow,
through the forest. They clutched each other, with beating hearts.

She caught sight of them, and turned and they saw that she carried on her arm a large light basket, containing a few
smaller ones made of sweet grass.

"You like to buy some baskets?" she asked, and wonder of wonders she smiled upon them, and drew nearer.

Lois found her voice after a minute. It had seemed to be buried somewhere deep down, perhaps in her stomach—it felt
queer.

"We haven't any money," she said, hoping the announcement would not bring down the wrath of the beautiful being.

But the stranger only nodded pleasantly.

"The little boy would like some bow and arrows, perhaps?" She fixed a bright gaze on Hal, whose knees were trying
not to wobble.

"Yes, I would—" he said rather breathlessly, "some day—when—when I have some money."

"You come, see what we have," said the maiden, and the children, still clasping hands, followed her stately tread.

They exchanged a look. She was doubtless luring them to the camp where the braves were perhaps at the present
moment doing a war dance about a fire. If they turned back, however, and refused, she might be angry; so they
followed on and determined to be so polite that no one, not even Indians, could be offended with them.

They had not gone far when the canvas of a few tents came into view. A wigwam stood in the center of the group and
half a dozen Indians in native dress and shining hair that hung on their shoulders were moving about.

The Indian maiden turned and gave the children another smile, and the indifference of the other Indian faces soothed
their timidity. She led them to the wigwam which proved to be a show-room for the wares they had to sell. There were
baskets of every shape and size, little birch bark canoes, bows and arrows, napkin rings and many other trinkets made
of birch bark or sweet grass.

"I shall tell my father and mother about these," said Lois, "I'm sure they will let us have some."

"Have you any war bonnets?" asked Hal.

"Yes, we have, but my people keep them for festival days," replied the Indian girl.

She spoke such good English and the other Indians, men and women, took so little notice of the children that they both
decided in their own minds that there would not be any danger, even in the night.

Their guide, noticing the eagerness with which they gazed at her, invited them to her own tent.

"We never saw any Indians before," said Hal. "We live in Boston."

"Well, it is pleasant to travel," replied the girl, and she led them to one of the tents and took them inside. There was a
bed and a wash-stand and two chairs in it, but above all there was a delicious odor which they inhaled as if they could
not get enough of it.

"That is the dried sweet grass," said the maiden. "I make the baskets with that." She dropped the large light basket off
her arm. "I take them to the hotel every afternoon, after the ladies take their naps," she smiled again at the children.
"They feel very bright and happy then, and they buy my baskets. See how few I have brought back? Then in the
mornings I work."

"O, may we see you do it sometime?"

"Certainly you may. I am going to finish one now. There is one chair for the little girl and for the boy there is the floor."
She gave Hal one of her bright smiles as she said it, and he dropped down, watching the strange, dark being with
admiring eyes. Among the men Indians he had not seen one who fulfilled his idea of a "Brave" but this maid was more
beautiful than any Indian Princess he had imagined.

[Pg 11]

[Pg 12]

[Pg 13]

"Now let us know all of our names," said the maiden as she seated herself and pulled toward her the unfinished basket,
upon which she began to weave.

"My name is Harold, but they call me Hal, because my father's name is Harold, and my mother likes to know us apart;
and my sister's name is Lois. Please tell us yours."

The Indian girl smiled at her work. "My name is Wenonah. I went to a great school down in Virginia and there a teacher
showed me the poem of Hiawatha. I have the name of his beautiful mother."

"I like it," said Hal promptly.

"So do I," added Lois.

"Then we all know each other now," said the girl. "Quick, that ship going by! Isn't it a picture?"

They looked through the avenue of pines that led to the beach and were just in time to see the white sails of a yacht
flying like a great white bird past the opening.

"We have to taste of that water to see if it truly isn't salt," said Lois.

"Can you swim?" asked her new friend.

"We are learning to."

"Ah, that is good for the mothers." Wenonah gave Hal a mischievous nod. "Little boys sometimes do not like their bath.
It is too much trouble."

Lois laughed. "How did you guess that?" she asked. "We go barefooted in summer and at night Hal always makes a
fuss about washing his dusty feet."

Hal looked rather shamefacedly down at the shoes he had not yet discarded for the season.

"I knew a boy once who felt that way. Something strange happened to him."

The children pricked up their ears.

"Would you mind telling us about it?" asked Lois. If there were any stories under that gold band that went around
Wenonah's forehead, they were eager to have them.

"Was he an Indian?" asked Hal.

"No, he was a white boy. I'll tell you about him."

CHAPTER III.

DUSTY FEET.

You never saw a kinder, sweeter woman than Joe's mother. His name was Joseph but of course nobody called him
that. He was a jolly, happy boy with lots of freckles on his nose, and one reason he was so happy, though he never
stopped to think about that, was that he had such a kind mother.

He lived on a farm, and his short trousers were held on by one suspender, as barefooted, he ran about from morning
until night. Plenty of other boys came to play with him and one reason was that the kind mother nearly always had time,
with all her work, to stop and spread a thick slice of bread and butter for a boy to eat.

"Dear little fellows, they're growing," she would say to herself, whenever Joe asked.

He and the other boys went fishing in the creek and played they were Indians in the woods. They climbed on the barn
roof; they ran swift express trains, and when Joe had his chores to do there was usually some boy ready to help him do
them.

He had to feed the pigs, squealing under the barn, and at evening go to fetch the cows. After such an active day it is no
wonder that after supper every night Joe soon became drowsy.

While his mother washed the supper dishes he would get into a big calico covered arm chair, and those legs that had
run about so busily all day long would feel as if they couldn't move, and his eyes would blink and stare, and close,
before he knew it.

When her work was done his mother would say, "Come, Joe, come now. It is time to wash your feet and get ready for
bed."

And Joe would pull his eyes open and stretch, and say, "O, Ma, why do I have to wash my feet every night?"

[Pg 14]

[Pg 15]

[Pg 16]

[Pg 17]

Day after day those nimble feet of Joe's stepped into all sorts of places all over the farm, and night after night he argued
for a long time before he would wash them.

One evening when his mother had put all her clean dishes away she went over to the arm chair and Joe was so sound
asleep that her gentle shaking did not wake him; so she just smiled down on him in that very nice way mothers have and
decided to have pity on the child.

She threw a large apron over him and blowing out the lamp, left him to spend the night in the big, soft old chair.

Very early in the morning Joe woke up, cramped in his small quarters, and rather cold; so he crept upstairs and crawled
into bed without disturbing anyone, and without washing his feet.

When morning came and the family had eaten breakfast, Joe's busy mother said nothing about last evening, and he
rushed out to play without worrying his head about yesterday's dust; for this was vacation time and Joe knew that the
end of it would soon come, and back to school he must go. So he and his playmates worked as hard as ever, playing
ball, and climbing trees and leap frogging over each others' backs, and eating any quantity of bread and butter.

Of course that night he was again very drowsy and when his mother called him to get ready for bed, he remembered the
evening before and how he had slept half the night under the old apron, and how he had not washed his feet. He
became quite wide awake thinking about it, and he began to picture a heaven where boys whose legs were too heavy
to move at night would never hear anyone remind them to scrub the dust off their ten toes. He began to try to think of a
way to make such a heaven; and a plan came into his head.

So while his mother was finishing the dishes and calling him to go, he staggered out of his chair, and seeming to be half
asleep and half awake stumbled into the front room where the sofa was, and with a groan of fatigue he fell upon its soft
old springs and stretched himself out.

He thought he knew what would happen, and sure enough it really did. The kind mother, coming in later found him
enjoying such a deep, peaceful sleep that she hadn't the heart to waken the boy and make him go and put his feet into
cold water. She shivered a little herself, just to think of it. So she covered him up carefully with a shawl and left him.

A very strange thing happened then. Joe found that he was not lying on the sofa at all, but on a bench in a beautiful
garden. Who had such a garden in their neighborhood? He knew he had never seen it before and he gazed about at the
nodding lilies and the roses that climbed high on a lattice, just as they did in a picture book he had. There were paths
leading about this garden and small blue flowers grew thickly along their edges.

Joe was wonderfully comfortable and happy in the midst of so much beauty, and he lay there looking at the bees
seeking for honey in the flower cups, and the butterflies that played together in the air, and alighted on the flowers,
sipping the dew, while they opened and closed their golden wings.

Suddenly there came into sight a lovely little girl, strolling along the path toward him. Joe was so surprised and delighted
to see her that he sat right up. He remembered her well. She was the girl whom he had seen ride, standing on a milk
white horse in the circus a few weeks ago. O that proud horse, with his fine arched neck, and O, the wonderful girl in
the white, lacy dress, and the gold star on her forehead! How fearlessly she had smiled. To think that she should be
here!

She was smiling now at the flowers as she strolled along, and butterflies circled around that golden star as it gleamed in
the sunlight. Her lacy dress blew in the summer breeze, just as it had in her flight on the milk white horse.

Joe sat up and gazed and gazed. He could hardly wait to tell her how glad he was she had come, and ask her if he
might ride once on her wonderful horse. He was springing up to go to meet her, when a fairy suddenly appeared from
the lily-bell near him. The fairy had wings brighter than the butterflies, and a blue-bell was perched on his saucy head.

At least he seemed saucy to Joe, for he waved him back with the wand in his tiny hand, with as much an air of authority
as if he had been six feet tall.

"But I want to speak to her," said Joe, "I want to play with her."

The little girl had come quite near now, and she heard this. Her smiling face grew very sober as she looked at him, and
she shook her head.

"No, I must never play with boys with dusty feet," she said, and lifting the gold star on her forehead very high, she
passed down another flowery path and disappeared.

The fairy smiled (he looked mischievous) and waved his wand. In a second, Joe was standing in the middle of a big
puddle of sticky mud. His face grew red with shame and disappointment and he felt tears pressing hard at the back of
his eyes, but of course he could not be a cry baby.

The mud seemed to get tangled with strings and they got in between his toes when he tried to pull his feet out, and then
he saw that it was his mother's apron that was all smeared with mud, and turning around in distress he saw her shawl;
the very one she had thrown over him on the sofa. He tried to get free of the black stickiness and step over on to the
shawl when his toes trod on something that felt like an old shoe, and how he did wish for his shoes and stockings!

[Pg 18]

[Pg 19]

[Pg 20]

[Pg 21]

Suddenly he felt cold and shivered. The mud turned into snow, and his feet were so cold that he tried to wriggle his toes
and found he couldn't. They were numb. He couldn't feel that he had any toes; and just then the beautiful little girl came
walking slowly back, and O, how he felt, standing there, splashed with the mud he had spattered all over himself trying
to get out of the puddle.

He must not cry, for that would be worse than being dirty. She might think he was in the dirt by accident, but no
accident would excuse a boy for crying.

She stood there, looking at him, not scornfully as before, but with a pitying, kindly look, and all at once she began to
float up from the ground.

She poised, suspended in the air, leaning over him with such sweet sadness in her gentle eyes that he became frightened
and awoke with a start.

It was morning and his mother was gazing down on him with her kind smile.

He looked up sheepishly and blinked his eyes. "Mother dear," he said, and he reached up for her hand, "I guess I forgot
to wash my feet."

CHAPTER IV.
BASKET MAKING.

When the children reached home they were much excited.

"We've found a gentle Indian," cried Hal.

"And she's a princess and her name is Wenonah," added Lois.

"Did she tell you she was a princess?" asked their mother.

"No, but she surely is," said Lois fervently. "She has a princess's clothes and a gold crown; and the most wonderful
thing is I wished for her. I could see the sky from my bed last night and when I saw the first star I wished the way I
always do:

"Starlight, Star bright,
First star I've seen tonight,
Wish you may, wish you might
Give me the wish I wish tonight."

and I wished for an Indian princess."

"Yes, she did, because she told me so coming home," said Hal earnestly.

"And to think she was waiting here and she can talk English as well as you do," said Lois. "She makes baskets and sells
them at the hotel."

"And there wasn't any tomahawk in her tent, because I looked," said Hal, "and the other Indians all looked so tame, I
don't believe they have any, either."

"She told us a story," said Lois. She looked at her brother and laughed, "It was about a boy who didn't like to wash his
feet."

"I don't care," returned Hal, growing red, "Perhaps she can tell another story about a girl who doesn't like to make
beds."

"A story already," said their father. "Well, I think those bowls of yours must have been right side up. We must go and
visit her Highness and buy a basket."

"I'm going to help her carry them to the hotel," said Hal who had very much liked the Indian girl with the flashing smile,
and the clothes like the bright plumage of a bird.

"I shall go, too," said Lois.

Mr. and Mrs. Robbins looked at one another and smiled. The children's earnestness and their red cheeks showed them
that it would be a good plan to make a visit to the dusky maiden with whom Lois and Hal were wishing to spend so
much time.

So the next day the children, escorted by their parents, went to the camp and the Indians were very much pleased to
see them, because they called for Wenonah and she took them to the wigwam, where they bought a number of the

[Pg 22]

[Pg 23]

[Pg 24]

[Pg 25]

pretty wares for the children and themselves.

Then they went back to Wenonah's tent with her, and watched her weave the sweet grass into the basket she was
making. She told them of the school she had attended, and how she had come home and helped her people to better
ways of living. She said they made a great store of their goods during the winter, then in summer went to the resorts and
sold them. The weaving they did here did not amount to much, except to show the ladies and gentlemen how the
baskets were made, and to give them lessons when they wished.

"How would you children like to take lessons in basket making?" asked their father.

Lois and Hal eagerly replied that they would like it very much.

"They could not manage the fine work at first," said Wenonah. "I have the coarser raffia for them."

So that is how the children came to take lessons in basket making. Their parents were not willing that they should go to
the hotel to help sell the pretty things, so while Wenonah was busy there, they played on the beach or in the woods and
sometimes went sailing with their father.

If Wenonah had been a white maiden they would have enjoyed being with her, for she was gentle and patient and liked
fun too, but with her dark features, shining braids of hair, and silent moccasins, and the stately grace with which she
moved about through the woods, they thought her the most charming person they had ever known.

Of course, sitting in the door of Wenonah's tent with the billows of the lake glinting among the trees and the fresh breeze
blowing, was a very pleasant way to learn basket making; and their clumsy little hands were kindly guided by the
slender, dark, clever fingers of their teacher.

Of course when the children were well started on their work it occurred to them that Wenonah might tell them another
story, and Lois, feeling so well acquainted with her now, told her how she had wished on the first star that night on the
steamer, and the Indian girl thought the wishing verse amusing, so Lois taught it to her, proud to think that she could
teach the princess something.

"I shall wish every night after this," said Wenonah. "I wonder if that might be the reason there is so often a star on the
end of a fairy's wand."

"Is there one?" asked both the children at once.

"Yes, usually. You see, the wand gives them everything they want, and perhaps it is the star that does it. I don't know,
though," said Wenonah, looking thoughtfully at the sweet grass she was weaving and which made the tent smell like a
field of new-mown hay. "The wand that Peter found had no star on it."

"What Peter?" asked Hal.

"What wand?" asked Lois.

So, of course, Wenonah, being very polite and obliging, began to tell them about it.

CHAPTER V.

THE WAND.

What a pleasant thing it is to be able to say of a boy, He is the strongest boy in the village—or the most honest boy in
the village—or the kindest boy in the village—or, nicest of all,—He is the best boy in the village; and what a sad thing it
is to say of a boy, He is the worst boy in the village; and that is what everybody said of Peter.

He was a tease and a bully—and a bully is always a coward, you know. The little girls at school avoided him. They
never knew what minute he would pull their hair, or stick out his foot suddenly and trip them up.

The animals feared him, and the meanest thing a boy can do, even worse than pulling a little girl's hair, is to be unkind to
animals, or even to tease them. No boy who likes to play fair will do it; for animals cannot speak, or defend themselves.

Peter's dog wanted to love him, as dogs always do, but he couldn't trust his master. When they went out together, the
dog, whose name was Pat, followed at a little distance. He wanted to go with Peter, but he was afraid of the heavy
shoe that could suddenly fly out and hurt him.

So Peter lost all the best part of life by being sulky and dishonest and spending his time thinking up mischievous things to
do. There was another boy in the village where Peter lived whom he especially disliked. This boy's name was
Lawrence, and the reason Peter hated him was that although smaller than himself, Lawrence had once or twice jumped
to the defence of some girl or boy whom Peter was hurting, and driven the bigger boy off with his fists.

Peter was scowling and thinking about Lawrence one day as he was trudging along the dusty road, Pat following at a
safe distance. The dog was hoping that pretty soon his master wouldn't look so cross and that he would dare to go

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closer. Once in a while when Peter felt good-natured he used to throw sticks for Pat to run after and bring back, and
Pat loved that.

Well, Peter trudged along with his hands in his pockets, but not whistling as happy boys do. His eyes were on the dusty
road as he thought about Lawrence and wished he could beat him. He had once found a penny as he walked along this
road and he was thinking about that, too, and wishing he could find another. He began to wonder what he would buy
with it if he could find one.

All at once he noticed a shining little object lying by the roadside. He went toward it and Pat noticed his movement and
saw as quickly as Peter did that the shining object was a little stick. The dog's ears and tail went up gladly. If Peter was
going to pick up a stick, that meant that he would throw it and they would have a game. Pat ran in front of Peter and got
in his way and the impatient boy gave him a kick.

Down went Pat's ears and tail, and crying out, he ran away to a safe distance, while Peter stooped to the strange, small,
shining object. It was very smooth and looked like silver. It was probably more valuable than a penny, and the boy
picked it up. He would hide it and wait to see if he could hear anything of the owner, and then make him pay a good
price for it.

Peter's eyes shone with satisfaction at this thought, and he picked up the silver stick. It was different from anything he
had ever seen and he wondered what its owner used it for.

He had no sooner grasped it and stood up than he began to sail gently up into the air. He was so astonished that his
eyes nearly fell out; but it was pleasant, too, to be wafted gently up and up as if he were a fluff of thistledown instead of
a clumsy country boy with the heavy shoes that poor Pat feared.

Little by little the road and trees and houses and barns and broad fields below him faded out of sight. "How far can I
go?" wondered Peter, and he grasped the satin-smooth little stick closer than ever. He felt sure that if he dropped it he
would go to the earth with a bump that would give him a severe headache; for surely his rise in the world must have had
something to do with this shining thing which gleamed now between his brown, and not very clean, fingers.

He looked at it as he sailed, and suddenly there came to him a remembrance of stories he had heard in the village about
fairies—fairies with wands. Yes, every fairy had a wand, and by waving this wand he could go everywhere and get
everything he wanted.

"I wonder if I'm a fairy now," muttered Peter, "that I feel so light. Have I got wings, and am I flying?"

He looked over the shoulder of his old, brown coat, but there were no signs of wings there.

"Still, this must be a wand," said Peter to himself, "and I'll see if I can get anything with it."

The earth had vanished completely now, so he held out the silver stick and said, "I'm tired of standing up. I wish I had a
nice, soft cloud to sit on."

No sooner had he made the wish than a lovely cloud floated toward him. It looked like a bank of swansdown. He
climbed into it and sank luxuriously into the softness and lay there and wondered, looking at his shining treasure.

While he was musing he became conscious that he was not alone on the cloud; and raising himself on his elbow he
looked down to the next terrace of fleecy white, and there sat the most charming little fairy you would care to see. Peter
noticed at once that she carried a wand like his own, and that her wings, so thin and airy, yet looked strong enough to
carry her slight figure.

She smiled up at him. "I'm so glad I found you, Peter," she said in a sweet voice. "I told Rose-Petal that I was sure I
could, and that you would be glad to bring back her wand."

"Who is Rose-Petal?" asked Peter, gazing admiringly at his companion, who certainly could not have looked prettier
anywhere than she did on that pure, fleecy-white cloud bank.

"Rose-Petal is the fairy who owns the wand you have. She lost it last night at a fire-fly ball, and though the fire-flies
were very kind and held their lanterns and flew about looking everywhere they could think of, they couldn't find it.
Rose-Petal is down beside the dusty road, now, where it is so hot that she feels as if she were wilting; so I know you
won't keep her waiting."

The fairy sent another sweet and coaxing smile up at Peter but he frowned.

"It's queer that a fellow can't get away from people even if he climbs up on a cloud miles away from the earth," he said;
for the last thing he was willing to do was to give back the wand to Rose-Petal.

"How did you find me?" he added, "and what is your name?"

"My name is Lily-bud, and I found you very easily, only I must say that if I had not seen Rose-Petal's wand in your
hand I would have thought it was the wrong person."

"Well, it is the wrong person," said Peter crossly. "This wand is mine."

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The fairy nodded sadly. "O, yes," she replied, "I see the Wise Woman was right. She said you told lies!"

"You want to be careful how you talk to me," said Peter very loud, and growing red in the face. "A little more and I'll
knock you off this cloud."

Lily-bud laughed, and I can't tell you how pretty she looked when she laughed, because her tiny face had the sweetest
dimple in one cheek and her blue eyes laughed, too.

Her gauzy wings opened and closed as a butterfly's will when it is resting on a flower.

"What difference would that make, you poor Peter?" she said.

Peter scowled because her manner and her words made him feel even smaller than she was.

"How did you find me, anyway?" he growled.

"O, I went to the Wise Woman under the hill. We fairies always go to her when we have a hard question; and we never
had a harder one than this, for Rose-Petal is the first fairy I ever knew to lose her wand."

Lily-bud's smile vanished and Peter saw her lip tremble.

"Think of her down there, huddling near the root of a big tree. Supposing someone should step on her!"

"Why doesn't she fly up to a safe place then?" asked Peter sullenly. Lily-bud's lip might tremble all it wanted to, he was
not going to give up his precious, shiny stick.

"Because without her wand her wings won't work," explained Lily-bud.

"What did that old, stupid Wise Woman tell you?" asked Peter. He was very cross at being found.

"She told me that Peter had found the wand and that he was the sort of boy who would not be willing to give it back, no
matter how much Rose-Petal suffered."

Peter laughed. "She is a wise old thing, then," he said.

"I told her I couldn't believe it, for didn't all boys take care of girls? She said no, not all boys, and that Peter was one of
the worst. He teased girls and hurt them and so he was a coward. He teased animals and hurt them and so he was a
coward. He robbed the eggs out of birds' nests, and threw stones at the birds with a slingshot, and so he was a coward.
He kicked his own dog that loved him, and so he was a coward."

Peter listened to all this and grew so hot and angry that he couldn't speak. Besides the anger, there was a very
uncomfortable feeling in his breast. It came from the look of disgust in Lily-bud's eyes as they were fixed on him without
any fear.

"If you were washed," she said, "and your shoes blacked, you wouldn't be bad looking. I should never think, just to
look at you, that you were such a poor wretch."

Peter felt scarlet from head to foot.

"Once more," said Lily-bud. "I'll ask you once more to think of beautiful, bright Rose-Petal suffocating beside the dusty
road, and ask you to give back her wand."

Peter was so ashamed that his ears burned and he couldn't meet Lily-bud's eyes, but he shook his head.

Lily-bud, without another word, rose lightly to the tips of her dainty toes, spread her gauzy wings, and flew off the cloud
and was soon out of sight.

Peter was glad she was gone. What difference did it make to him what was thought of him by two fairies and an old
crone of a Wise Woman? He had the wand. That was the main thing; for he had power now to do what he pleased,
and the thing he was most anxious to do was to pay back Lawrence for interfering with him and spoiling his fun.

He waved the wand now and asked to go back to earth. He rose to the tips of his coarse shoes and at once floated
gently off the cloud and began the descent.

The pleasant, cool air fanned him and seemed to bear him up on the charming journey. Soon the earth came into view
and after awhile he began to recognize familiar objects, and after a bit he alighted at the very spot from which he had
arisen.

"I like flying," he said to himself. "I shall do that every day."

Pat was running about, nosing the ground and peering into every nook and cranny in wonder where his master had
disappeared. Had Pat been a boy he would have been very glad to have such a master disappear and would hope
never to see him again; but dogs are different. Is it any wonder they are called the friends of man, when such treatment
as Pat received cannot destroy their affection? One should be most kind to such faithful creatures. Don't you think so?

Well, Peter walked along in a very lordly way, feeling as if he owned the earth, and twirling the little stick that twinkled

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in the sunlight, and which was going to make him succeed in everything he wanted to do. He gave no thought to Rose-
Petal hiding herself, dusty and forlorn, between the tree roots so that no one should step on her.

Pat recognized him and approached timidly and slowly, looking at his master out of the tops of his eyes.

"Hello, Pat," said Peter in the height of his good nature, and with a bound the happy dog was beside him, even daring to
give one little jump up on him to tell him how glad he was that Peter wasn't lost.

He looked at the stick and wondered if his master was going to throw it for him to chase; but no, indeed, Peter would
run no such risk of losing the wand.

"Besides," he thought, and the thought made him laugh, "if Pat should pick up this stick, he might float up into the sky
and live with the dog-star forever, for he wouldn't know enough to ask to come down."

It made Pat so happy to hear his master laugh that he frolicked about as if he had never heard an unkind word in his life.

Peter even began humming a tune as he walked along, still twirling the stick. The forest bordered the road, and his eye
caught sight of a handsome red-winged blackbird swinging on a bough. His eyes gleamed. It was such a beauty. He
hurriedly picked up a stone.

"Hit the mark, Stone," he ordered gaily, and threw it with sure aim. In a minute he would have those wings to stick in his
cap.

He ran forward toward the tree, when a wonderful thing happened. That little stone turned around in the air, and flying
back at Peter struck him on the cheek with such a smart blow that a tiny trickle of blood ran down.

"Who did that? Who did that?" cried Peter, thinking at once of Lawrence and looking all around. He struck at Pat, but
the dog avoided the blow.

The bird flew swiftly away, singing, "Foolish Peter, Foolish Peter," as he went.

It astonished the boy to understand the bird's song, but he was still so busy hunting for Lawrence, dodging behind some
tree, that he did not pay much attention to it. Everything that happened to him lately was strange.

He walked along the road, his hand to his cheek. After awhile he came to the village square where the horse pond was.
Many children he knew were there, and among them Lawrence.

"Aha, you ran faster than I did," muttered Peter, "but I will get even with you all the same."

Pat felt his mood, and came sedately after him, his tail hanging limply close to his hind legs.

Peter waved his shining wand and said, "I want Lawrence ducked in the horse pond," and he set himself to laugh at the
other boy when he should see him struggling in the pond.

Instantly there was a splash, but it was Peter who was floundering in the water, choking and coughing and making great
ado because he couldn't swim.

The children all gathered around, and because each of them had some unpleasant memory of Peter, they laughed even
while some of them tried to help him. He was a funny object, kicking and spluttering and clutching the water, with his
hair in his eyes.

"Here, Peter, hang on," said Lawrence, and bracing himself by holding to a post, he offered his foot to Peter, who
managed to get hold of it and pull himself to the edge where he could climb out.

"Here you, keep out of that pond," said a man coming near and speaking angrily. "Don't you know enough not to try to
swim in there?"

Peter crept away, dripping, from the laughter of the children, and Pat followed him close.

"Foolish Peter. Foolish Peter," sang a voice again. This time there was no bird and he thought it sounded like Lily-bud's
voice, it was so small and sweet.

"How did I happen to trip and fall in there," the boy wondered as he hurried along.

The worst part of it was being helped out by Lawrence, and Lawrence had laughed too, laughed harder than anybody
when Peter was safe on the ground, looking like a drowned rat.

"Foolish Peter," repeated the voice. "You might have made all those children love you, then nobody would have laughed
at your troubles."

He hurried along, past the market wagons, and a horse accidentally hit him, turning his head. Peter drew back his foot
to kick the horse, as he did Pat; and suddenly he received a kick in his own leg, so severe that it made him jump. He
was sure, too, that he heard the horse say: "Foolish Peter," as he shook his head.

The boy hurried the faster, too blind with anger and with the water still dripping from his hair, to care where he was

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going. He saw that Pat was following on. There was one good thing about Pat. He couldn't laugh, and he couldn't talk
and lecture him.

"Where was that Lily-bud, following him and nagging him?" He looked all about, but nothing was to be seen except the
country road. His leg ached from the kick he had meant to give the horse, and his clothes stuck to him.

Ahead of him he now saw a huge, coarse bramble bush growing by the side of the road. Peter regarded it eagerly and
looked about to see if he had lost the wand in the pond. No, there it was. It had fallen into a side-pocket and was
glittering there.

Some one had fired a stone at him, he had tripped and fallen into the horse pond, and somebody hiding under a market
wagon had kicked him, but here he was safe. He was the only person on the road, and the thorns on that bramble bush
would stop Lawrence's laughing for some time anyway. Peter would sit here close to it by the roadside and laugh at him
to his heart's content.

He took out the wand and waved it. "I wish Lawrence was in the middle of that bramble bush," he said.

Suddenly something began to scratch him like a thousand pins and he found himself in the midst of the brambles, which
at every move made him squeal as he was scratched in a new place.

Before he managed to get out of that tormenting bush, Peter was a thoroughly frightened and suffering boy. Pat leaped
about in distress and even made his own mouth sore trying to pull away the brambles so his master could escape.

At last Peter was free, and rolling to a safe spot on the grass, he set himself to pull out some of the thorns that stuck in
his flesh. As he did so Pat licked the hurt places on his master's legs and arms and this, with the sight of the wounds on
the dog's own lips, which he had suffered in trying to help Peter, brought tears to the boy's eyes. He put his arms
around Pat, and the dog licked his master's cheek in his happiness.

"Wise Peter," said a voice. "Now there is hope."

Peter looked up and there sat Lily-bud swaying on a purple thistle. She smiled very kindly at the boy.

"You've had a hard time, haven't you?" she said.

Peter nodded. He was trying to stop the bleeding of Pat's lips with the edge of his soft, wet shirt. "I wish I had never
kicked my dog," he said.

At that Lily-bud's face grew very happy. "Do you begin to see that you didn't understand how to use Rose-Petal's
wand?" she asked.

Peter felt too crushed to speak. He shook his head.

"You see," explained Lily-bud, "that wand belongs to a good fairy."

Peter looked up at her and the truth began to come to him slowly. Lily-bud smiled and sat on her purple cushion and
swayed, and let him think.

"Then I suppose it would cure Pat's mouth," he said eagerly, at last.

She nodded. "Try it," she answered.

Peter waved the glittering stick in his scratched hand. "I want Pat's mouth to be well," he said, and instantly the dog
yawned and licked his chops with satisfaction, for they were as whole and comfortable as ever they were.

Peter gave him a hug. "How about my arms and legs?" he asked then, rather shamefaced.

Lily-...